


you're fooling no one

by eliotkeats



Category: High and Low: the Story of S.W.O.R.D. (TV)
Genre: Families of Choice, Gen, M/M, Pining, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-23
Updated: 2017-01-23
Packaged: 2018-09-19 11:46:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9438755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eliotkeats/pseuds/eliotkeats
Summary: Smokey loves Shion the way Smokey loves them all: equally and unconditionally.





	

Summer hits the Nameless Road hard.  The air smells like garbage rotting in the heat, the low buzz of the flies that cluster on any filth they can find incessant.  People sprawl panting in the shade like dogs, and Smokey’s sick again.

Shion takes Smokey as high as they can get, to the tangle of pipes and railings and catwalks crisscrossing over the Nameless Road, where the air, while still oppressively hot, is cleaner and easier to breathe.

The breeze ruffles Smokey’s hair as he leans his folded arms on a railing and looks out across the inactive factory smokestacks.  Shion watches him, rolling a corroded ball bearing between his fingertips.  

It’s rare that the two of them are alone, without Pi or Takeshi or Lara around.  Shion knows that's because Smokey feels better when they’re all together, that he likes to watch his piecemeal family, whether they’re eating or bickering or sleeping together.

“You worry too much,” Smokey says, startling Shion out of his thoughts.  Smokey’s looking at him, arms still folded over the railing.

Shion flicks the ball bearing at him; it bounces off a thickly felted patch stitched to Smokey’s jacket sleeve, and clatters through the metal-gridded catwalk.  “I don’t.”

The corner of Smokey’s mouth quirks up and he turns, leaning his elbows back against the railing, and looks quizzically up at the sky.  It’s a washed out peach, the smokestacks idling on the horizon the dull color of dried blood.  “It’s bad luck, a string of summer colds.  You were the sick one the winter before last.”

None of the others has said anything, but Shion knows what they’d all hoped: Smokey’s illness was just from a winter spent huddled around trashcan fires and space heaters, and under scratchy blankets.  _He'd get better come spring._ But there’s sweat trickling down Shion’s spine, and a breeze like a humid breath tickling the shaved-short hairs on the back of his neck, and Smokey’s breath is still rattling in his chest.

Shion shifts and scuffs the toe of his boot against the rusted grating.  “You looked after me then and made sure I got better.  I owe you, Smokey.”

Smokey’s expression sobers.  “You don’t owe me anything.  Family take care of their own.”

It’s a struggle to not react to that.  Shion doesn’t consider himself inclined to jealousy, but, well.  Smokey loves Shion the way Smokey loves them all: equally and unconditionally.  Like family.  Every time Shion’s reminded of that, he has to bite his lip and remember that _at least he has this_ , even if it’s at once less and more than he wants from Smokey.    

The least Smokey could do is let him have this. 

He’s watching Smokey chew his thumbnail ragged, debating internally whether it’s worth it to wrap his fingers around Smokey’s wrist and pull his hand away from his mouth, because Smoky’s nails are seriously filthy, and who knows what germs — 

Smokey picks that moment to double over in another coughing fit, clutching the railing, white-knuckled, to keep himself upright.  Shion hastens to help, gets an arm around Smokey’s waist, heart pounding.  

After another agonizing thirty seconds of Smokey gagging himself breathless, he manages to straighten, swaying back against the railing.  His lips are flecked with blood, mouth hanging open as he tries to breathe.  Shion wants desperately to help him, to make it better, to — 

Smokey wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and the moment’s gone.  He gives Shion a wan smile and rasps, “I’m fine.”

Sho takes a deep breath; holds it, releases it.  “Okay,” he agrees.  Smokey’s still watching him out of the corner of his eye, swaying minutely.  “Takeshi and Pi are probably still busy.  Want to wait here?”

Smokey drops heavily to the rusty metal grid of the catwalk, crosses his legs and leans his shoulders against a pipe eaten into by corrosion.  Shion sits next to him, knees drawn up and arms draped across them, picking at his torn fingernail.  

On his left, Smokey sighs and shifts.  His upper arm bumps against Shion’s, tan skin sun-warmed and a little slick from sweat, and remains there, Smokey leaning into Shion, the slightest bit.

Takeshi and Pi will find them, of course, maybe in five minutes, or ten, and things will be back to usual: all of them together,and Shion isn’t a selfish person, so he’ll drop back to his place at Smokey’s right, and be there when they look for him.  

But — 

Shion looks sideways at Smokey.  Smokey’s head is tipped back, eyes closed.  He looks content, like an alley cat sunning itself.  

This is good for now, maybe.  


End file.
